


Disengage

by sunbreaksdown



Series: 8r8k h34ds [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: 8r8k h34ds, Alcoholism, F/F, Scourge Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“New York, huh? When do you want to go there?”</p>
<p>“In a fortnight,” she says. God, she already has this all planned out. But of course she does, she's Kanaya Maryam, moirail extraordinaire, and you wouldn't expect anything less from her. Before you can say anything, Terezi flicks an ice cube your way, and hisses out a <i>yeeees</i> when she somehow knows that it thwacks your collarbone and skids down the front of your tank.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Kanaya tracks Rose down in New York, Scourge Sisters in tow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't venture into this without having read [8r8k h34ds](http://archiveofourown.org/works/324570) and [Connect](http://archiveofourown.org/works/398924) first! This story doesn't stand alone in any sense, and will only cause confusion if read blindly. 
> 
> Split into two chapters, purely because of the length.

     The first time Terezi goes back to her mother's over the Easter break, the three hour round trip doesn't bother you in the slightest. The motorway's clear, you're there by midday, and dinner with her mother goes so well that you don't end up leaving until close to midnight. It's a first for you, actually meeting somebody's parent, and you spend the drive home grinning every time you remember something stupid you _didn't_ say out loud. 

     Things are really looking up for you. You find Kanaya two months later, she visits on a weekend when the sun's actually shining, and the only thing you and Terezi ever really argue about is what pizza topping to go for. But then Terezi comes to the end of her three-year degree, the lease on her house runs out, and she's back living at her mother's full-time. Or at least until she finds herself a job, and she's looking up in Oxford, anyway. Which really sucks for you, but there's no way in hell you're going to ask her to move in with you. There's just not the room in your flat, and you've only been with her for, what— seven, eight months?

     Goddamn, that's got to be a record. You haven't even managed to keep _friends_ for that long in the past. So you deal with things as best you can: you drive up to Terezi's for the weekend, bring her back with you, and she stays for three, four days, under the guise of job hunting in London. There have got to be more people looking here, right? She's graduated with her fancy degree, and she's had all that work experience at her mum's place; anyone would be stupid to turn her down, she'll find herself a placement around here any day now. Never mind those interviews she's already had up in Oxford, she'll be in her own flat soon enough, and you'll be complaining about just how damn close she is.

     Sometimes, you'll go for an entire fortnight without seeing her, when work's busy and you can't bear the thought of trudging up there through traffic. Kanaya comes over on the first weekend of every month, doesn't mind the fact that she has to sleep on your sofa, and you make sure that Terezi's always around for her visits. The first time, she busied herself with tidying up your flat, not able to help herself, and you had no choice but to let her impulses get the better of her. Not to say that you didn't grumble and whine as she fussed around the flat, putting everything that didn't need to be moved back into place, but you feel obligated to put up with her meddling.

     It's hard to describe how she makes you feel: maybe you're not designed for moirallegiance in this body, with your viscid human organs and warm blood, but you want Kanaya close, acting like _Kanaya_ , and you've never had such a firm grasp on this seemingly intangible thing you just can't put into words. It's sort of like how you want to wrap your arms around Terezi's waist every night and graze your lips against the nape of her neck, but never tell her as much, because you've not gone soft or anything. 

     There are never any blurred lines between how you feel about Terezi and Kanaya respectively, so there's no need to try categorising these pedantic little nuances. 

     It's Kanaya's third consecutive visit, early August, and you're sprawled out on the sofa, all the windows in your flat open. You've got a vest and boxers on, fanning yourself with one of the magazines Kanaya always insists on buying, while Terezi's bundled up in the armchair, sucking on strawberry ice cubes. Your head's rested on Kanaya's lap, the hot weather having made you sluggish enough to immediately relent and let her get on with it when she started braiding your hair, and you have to admit, you feel a whole lot cooler this way.

     Your brain is grub sauce, threatening to leak out of your ears at any moment, and you can't bring yourself to do a single thing. The kitchen's too far away, cooking makes things even hotter, and you're tired of binging on cereal. You _want_ to shower, but the thought of having to stand upright for more than few seconds knocks any dregs of effort you were willing to make out of your system, and everyone else is just as sweaty as you are.

     “This place is a shithole,” you grumble, rubbing your knuckles between your eyes. No air conditioning, no fans, and the windows don't open widely enough. 

     “We could go somewhere else,” Kanaya suggests, not looking up from her book.

     Maybe she wants to take you out for another meal in one of those fancy restaurants, the ones with air conditioning and snooty waiters who look at you like you can't afford anything on the menu. Which is true, because Kanaya always pays, but you get to snap your fingers at the staff and boss them around, and they have to pretend that they don't think you're from the gutters of south-east London. You wouldn't object to going out, but that draws you back to the initial problem of not being able to bring yourself to get in the shower.

     Maybe Terezi will drag you in there, if you complain enough. You glance over at her, and she's still busy with her ice cubes, pinching them between a thumb and a finger and slurping loudly. 

     “Yeah?” you ask after a moment, belatedly remembering to do the words-thing with your mouth. “Like where?”

     “New York,” she says, as if it's down the road, and turns another page. 

     Even Terezi perks up, and stops numbing her tongue so that she can listen. Your brow lifts as you sit up, and all you can do is shoot Kanaya the most incredulous look, now that you're on the same level.

     “New York, huh? When do you want to go there?”

     “In a fortnight,” she says. God, she already has this all planned out. But of course she does, she's Kanaya Maryam, moirail extraordinaire, and you wouldn't expect anything less from her. Before you can say anything, Terezi flicks an ice cube your way, and hisses out a _yeeees_ when she somehow knows that it thwacks your collarbone and skids down the front of your tank. Accustomed to such distractions, Kanaya continues speaking. “The line up in my latest show was inspired in part, if not entirely, by _Complacency of the Learned_. It only seems appropriate that I converse with the copyright owner to ensure that there isn't likely to be any bad blood between us. My agent has already set up the meeting.”

     You're torn between giving Terezi a mouthful and congratulating Kanaya. After half a second, you realise that ice cube melting down the front of your shirt actually feels fairly nice, and so you reach out, clamping a hand against Kanaya's shoulder. You look at the way you handled this situation, the way you packed half your life up in the back of your car and drove off almost aimlessly, not expecting to achieve anything, and then there's Kanaya, having exploited every last advantage she has. She's got a fucking _agent_ , and a meeting all set up. No wonder her life's going as well as she deserves it to.

*

     Once Kanaya gives you something to talk about, the boredom drains away without so much as a glug. Terezi immediately begins to plot, scoots over and makes herself comfortable in you lap, so she can sling her legs across Kanaya's and shake her shoulders to show just how excited she really is, and in spite of your protests, her squirming around doesn't bother you _that_ much. It's way too hot, sure, but you're excited enough that it doesn't really matter. When Terezi says that there's no way Kanaya's going without her, because it's not exactly as if she has a job keeping her tied down, you fall quiet, because there's no way in hell you have the funds for that.

     There you are, between your girlfriend and your moirail, somehow managing to feel left out. It doesn't take them long to realise, and Kanaya says something about getting you a ticket as an early birthday present, which leaves you thinking _great, now I'm a charity case_. Terezi doesn't let you sulk for long, though. She plants a sloppy kiss against your cheek, Kanaya pats your knee, and you reluctantly agree that, yeah, it'd be pretty great to get away. You and Terezi, spending time together, not having to worry about carting her back to her mum's place; not a bad idea at all.

     Once the topic's exhausted to the point of random, giddy bouts of excitement, you ease Terezi off your lap, stretch your arms up above your head, and announce that there's a bed just dying for your attention. You're too tired to bother changing into anything resembling pyjamas, and so you strip off your vest top, and flop down against the bed. You could still go for a shower, but you evidently don't care enough about cleanliness to bother doing anything about your sweaty state. Somehow, it's even hotter in your bedroom, but hopefully Terezi isn't going to be wrapping herself around you tonight. 

     She joins you a few minutes later. You're very busy smushing your face into a pillow and feeling as if you're going to melt into the sheets, and she peels her clothes off, falling down on her side of the mattress. Well, the side that she usually sleeps on. It isn't _her_ bed. You stretch out an arm, reaching for her wrist, and Terezi rolls onto her side with a smile, entwining her fingers with your own.

     You shuffle to face her, too tired to say anything, too hot to move, eyes skimming across her face. Fuck it, you think, tugging your hand free from hers. It's already unbearable enough in there, so you might as well make it worse. You throw an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

     Terezi laughs softly, buries her face in the crook of your neck, snoozing before you have the chance to scold her.

*

     Kanaya takes the Eurostar over a few weeks later, and there the three of you are, suitcases trailing behind you as you make your way into the check-in area of Heathrow airport. 

     You told your manager that you needed to take a week off work, sorry about the short notice, and he only sighed, because didn't you just take holiday time off in order to go to France? If they fire you, they fire you. You'll deal with that once you're back in the UK, because there's no point in lingering over it now. You'll survive. You've lost jobs before, and you have a sneaking suspicion Kanaya would revel in the chance to financially support you, if worst came to worst.

     She paid for your ticket, and claimed that First Class was the only way to travel for your first flight or any other, honestly, but you have a few hundred dollars shoved into your wallet. You're not about to let her pay for _everything_ , even if that everything only consists of beer and tacky souvenirs. 

     Being at the airport is remarkably boring. You queue to check in, you queue to go through security, you queue to buy a sandwich and a drink, and then spend an hour and a half slumped in one of the more uncomfortable seats you've ever had the misfortune of sitting in. If you'd been scared of flying at any point, you think you'd be more worried about a seemingly inevitable death at the hands of boredom right around now.

     By the time the monitors indicate that your plane is ready for boarding, you're so grateful for the chance to go _somewhere_ that you could run the entire way to America.

     And then you reach your gate, and queue to have your passport checked. You spend eight hours, excluding pee and leg-stretching breaks, sat in one of the more generously sized seats you've ever been in, but find that it becomes more and more uncomfortable as the minutes tick by.

     Flying isn't any more interesting than sitting in the airport was. It doesn't make you feel sick; doesn't make you feel much of anything. There's a slight buzzing in your ears, and you occasionally have to force a yawn to make them pop, but other than that, it's nothing special. It's not like _really_ having wings. You close your eyes at the thought, try to feel the way the plane's tearing through the clouds, and do your best to hold onto that moment. As if the air is rushing across your skin, not the hard shell of the cabin.

     Kanaya fidgets more than you've ever seen her do so, though you know she's well versed in flying. She says she's been to New York no less than a dozen times, but that hadn't been for anything _important_. Her words, not yours; you're under the impression that fashions shows are kind of important for fashion designers, but you're no expert in the field. She sits and reads _Complacency of the Learned_ , and your chest tightens with a swell of pale feelings over how _ridiculous_ she is.

     She's trying to take her mind off of tomorrow's meeting with Rose Lalonde by reading a book Rose Lalonde herself wrote.

     Terezi has her chair reclined at a full tilt, and alternates between closing her eyes and nodding along to her music and reading something in Braille that doesn’t look like a textbook, for once. A few hours in, you ask her if she wants to fuck in the toilets, because it seems like the done thing on a plane, but neither of you are really feeling it, and decide to save it for the return journey.

     You nap a lot, and it only gives you a headache. Drifting in and our of sleep for ten or fifteen minutes at a time does nothing to make you feel less tired, in spite of not having done _anything_ all day, nor does it kill time as being unconscious should. When the captain finally announces that you're about to begin your descent after what must've been a year spent in the sky, you're coming to terms with the fact that you're never going to leave American soil. There's no way you're putting yourself through this much boredom twice.

     Kanaya and Terezi will have to knock you out and drag you on board, if they want you back in London. Which, knowing the both of them, isn't completely out of the question.

     Different country, and the process in the airport is pretty much the same: more queueing, interspersed with bouts of waiting, while they take their time deciding which carousel your luggage is being sent to.

     You're completely out of touch with what time it is, but to nobody's surprise, Kanaya has everything planned out, and you don't have to do too much thinking. God knows you did enough of _that_ throughout the flight. It's dark outside, but not too dark, and there's a car waiting to take you to the hotel. Your bags are bundled into the boot, and you sit in the back sandwiched between Kanaya and Terezi.

     Terezi eagerly asks you to describe what everything looks like, and you grunt, saying that there are a lot of bright lights and that's about it, okay? Though you've done nothing but lounge around for what now feels like the entirety of your life, there's not much on your schedule other than sleeping now.

     The hotel's nice, nicer than anything you could afford, but it isn't as over the top as it could be. It might be a billion degrees hotter in New York than it was in London, but there's air conditioning in the room, and maybe being stranded on these foreign shores might not be as bad as you first thought. There are two rooms between the three of you, and Kanaya heads into hers to unpack. 

     You do no such thing, drop your suitcase on the floor, and fall back onto the king-sized bed in the centre of the room. Terezi feels around for a wardrobe, and you roll your eyes, telling her not to waste her time. Nothing wrong with living out of a suitcase for a while.

     You conclude your point with a yawn so long and so wide that you can't even close your mouth when Terezi tries to jab her fingers in, only to shove two fingers against your nose. Admitting that she's lost the battle, but not the war, she grabs your arm, and pulls you to your feet.

     “You had all the time in the world to sleep on the plane, Vriska. We're meeting Kanaya in fifteen minutes for dinner, so do whatever you need to to stop feeling gross!”

     “Who said I feel gross?” you grumble, but sit up regardless. If anything could motivate you right now, it's the thought of food. Real, piping hot food. Not that crap they tried to force on you at various points throughout the flight. 

     Terezi slides onto your lap, which isn't the most conductive thing for getting ready to go out, and you don't know why the hell you were foolish enough to think that she was going to sweetly kiss you against the cheek for so much as half a second. You really must be knackered. True to form, Terezi settles for leaning in and licking the length of your cheek, before falling off your lap in a fit of giggles.

     “My bad! You only _taste_ gross.”

     “I could be so black for you,” you grumble, getting to your feet. She is right, in a sense. Maybe splashing some cold water against your face and changing will make you feel better. 

     “You said that was too exhausting!” Terezi announces, and reaches out, managing to slap your butt before you escape into the bathroom. “You're as red as your sticky human blood is for me.”

*

     Kanaya seems distracted at dinner that night. Terezi marvels at how big all of the meals are, and you do your moirail duties in not letting her drink more than two glasses of wine. If you were in Kanaya's position, you'd probably drink yourself into a fit of detachment from the reality of your situation and hope you didn't sober up until everything went by quickly enough for you not to remember any of it, but you know that Kanaya doesn't want to embarrass herself. Doesn't want to have a hangover, either.

     The meeting's at half ten tomorrow morning, and now that Kanaya's sitting a few blocks away from the restaurant they're meeting at for brunch, she's wholly distracted by the conversations she could have with Rose playing through her mind. She must be going over every possible scenario, because she barely even touches her dinner. Terezi tries to cheer her up by pointing out that Rose is a fellow Seer, and coupled with the fact that she's always been human, there's no way she won't remember exactly what happened to them.

     Back at the hotel, you shower after dinner. You use the complimentary soap and shampoo, because you're not about to rummage through your bags this late at night, and when you step out of the bathroom and see Terezi sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her shirt off, and feel the cool air of the room on your skin, you're not as tired as you'd previously claimed to be. 

     She pins your hands by the sides of your head and lets you kiss her like you haven't felt the back of her teeth with your tongue in months, and you may as well not have, with the stifling summer heat of your apartment, and all the driving back and forth. But she's here with you now, and as long as she keeps pressing herself up against you and arching under your touch, you won't have to think of how things will be once you get back to England.

     The alarm clock says it's eleven fifteen when you wake, though it barely feels as if you've been sleeping for more than an hour or two. It takes you a moment to realise that it was knocking that woke you, and with a groan, you untangle yourself from Terezi, and scramble to wrap one of the bed covers around yourself. Usually, you'd ignore unexpected knocking, but if it's the cleaners coming around, then they have a key to the room.

     “Who is it?” you grumble, leaning so that your forehead rests against the door frame.

     There's a pause, you don't think you're getting your answer, and then Kanaya says, through a sigh, “It's me.”

     “Kanaya?” You open the door, because she deserves to see the puzzled expression painted across your face. She was supposed to be at her meeting forty-five minutes ago and, shit, you meant to get up earlier to wish her good luck. “Don't tell me you overslept.”

     She doesn't _look_ like she overslept. For as well put together as Kanaya usually is, today she's really gone that extra mile. You wouldn't doubt that she's spent long weeks, if not months, planning this outfit out in advance. But from the expression she wears, eyes a little glassy, face pale, you don't think she wants to hear that she looks good.

     “I went to my meeting. I was there ten minutes before it was scheduled to start, Rose turned up five minutes late, and—” She pauses, wringing her hands together. You don't miss the way her voice hitches on Rose's name, and _right_ , that's how she looks. As if she's seen a ghost. “She walked up to our table, took one look at me, and turned to leave. That's all. She didn't even say a word.”

     “Shit. Just—”

     Just what? You don't know what to say or do, and you still wouldn't, even if you knew what was going through Rose's head. You want to help Kanaya, because what sort of moirail would you be if you didn't, but you've no clue where to even start with this. Should you invite her in? Offer her a hug? No, you're mostly naked, that might be a little weird. 

     And so you opt to close the door in her face.

     “Give me a second to get dressed!” you call through the door, and begin digging through your suitcase with enough enthusiasm to disturb Terezi.

     “What's going on?” Terezi mumbles, and it all comes out as one word. She probably heard you and Kanaya talking but assumed it was a dream, and when you shrug it off as a _moirail emergency_ , she isn't having any of it. 

     Having not heeded your fantastic advice of living out of a suitcase for the week, Terezi manages to dress far quicker than you do. She opens the door to Kanaya while you're still pulling your jeans up, and by the time you've managed to find your glasses, the two of them are already in the process of ordering breakfast.

     They both know what you like, and order up a double helping of everything. Something tells you that you aren't going to see very many tourist attractions today.

     While you shovel pancakes that aren't quite as good as the ones Kanaya makes into your mouth, she does her best to elaborate on what happened, though there honestly isn't much more to it. Rose turned up, stared her dead in the eyes, and turned to leave. She takes small bites of the watermelon she's had room service bring up, and says that she supposes this is it. Things can't always turn out as you want them to in a situation like this.

     You almost choke on a mouthful of pancake in an effort to swallow it down, so that you can snap at Kanaya for giving up so easily. She asks what you'd do, if you were in her position, if she'd turned her back on you in France, clearly having no interest in having anything to do with you, ever.

     You don't even have to think about it.

     “I'd be pissed!” you say. “I drove all the way to Nowheresville, France, to track you down, Maryam, and if you couldn't even be bothered to say hello, I wouldn't let you get away with it. You know what Rose is? She's rude. Goddamn rude. If you'd done that to me, you know I'd be banging on your front door all night, as drunk as fuck.”

     Kanaya doesn't seem all that inspired by your revelation, and glances over at the mini-bar. 

     “I suppose I don't have your luck, Vriska.”

*

     Kanaya has plenty of business contacts and a few friends in New York, so it isn't a wasted journey, and you let her drag you around the shops, hoping it'll make her feel better. It's one of the more selfless things you've ever done in your life, because as soon as you step into a clothing store your back immediately aches, and you can't think of anything other than finding somewhere to sit down.

     You let Kanaya buy you things which, again, is a selfless act in its purest form, because it makes her feel better, and then hit all the generic tourist traps. Most of them looked cooler on TV, and admittedly, you've never been desperate to visit New York. You'd rather go somewhere with crumbling ruins and abandoned castles, just because, but if you're here, you're going to enjoy yourself.

     Hopefully, it'll wear off on Kanaya.

     She looks utterly dejected, and it's hard to put in words exactly why it is she feels quite so bad. After all, she hasn't seen Rose in over twelve years, and a hell of a lot has happened between now and then; but Rose was an important part of her old life, a link between Alternia and Earth, and Kanaya spent so long dreaming without realising it was all a reality that she deserves for things to be straight forward for her for once.

     Terezi always finds something to keep the conversation flowing, even when Kanaya doesn't seem to want to say anything in return, and you hope for her sake that she makes her mind up about what to do soon. She does know where Rose lives, she admits, but she isn't sure whether she wants to intrude upon her or not.

     You tell her that it's the right thing to do, and not just because you're hoping that Rose will magically get her act together; it isn't fair to leave Rose in limbo like this. Now that she's seen Kanaya, and recognised her on some level, the gaps are going to begin filling themselves in and tearing open even wider, whether she wants them to or not.


	2. Chapter 2

     You walk down a street in New York City that looks the same as all the others, surrounded by people who blend into one. The crowd barely parts to let you through, though you walk uninterrupted nonetheless, not knowing where you're going, but well aware that you can't stop now. Behind you, horns blare. The conversation becomes a buzz, no one word discernible from any other, and you want to swat everyone around you, like they're flies.

     The heat makes your skin sticky, and there's a burning in your chest where you've either been walking too far or too fast. But Terezi is up ahead, back turned to you, meaning that a break is within sight. You call to her, but your voice doesn't rise above the clamour of the city streets. Once you're close enough, you reach out to place a hand on her shoulder; she spins on the spot, sharply, as if you've activated a switch.

     At first, you think she's crying. She's rubbing her palms and her knuckles against her eyes, and with a scowl that says _snap out of it_ , you absent-mindedly rub at your chest. It's like heartburn, but it goes all the way through.

     Your shirt is damp with sweat. With your free hand, you pat at Terezi's shoulder, hoping it'll calm her down. She's probably just wandered off and got herself lost, and now she's panicking because she's certain you would've given up the search and headed back to the hotel; teal streaks run down her cheeks, and it's blood, blood against the back of your hand.

     You open your mouth to say something, an eloquent _what the fuck_ , but your ears are ringing long before you realise there's something warm and thick caught in your throat. Terezi looks at you, through you, eyes wide open, and it's not the teal you're looking at anymore. Her eyes are bright red, as if filled with human blood, blood that isn't her. She tilts her head to the side, and you see it swish behind the surface of her eyes, like two tiny fish bowls have been embedded into her skull. 

     If she keeps rubbing at her eyes like that, she's going to shatter them. With your other hand, you grasp at her shoulder, not knowing what to do, other than shake some sense back into her. Blue smears across the white of her shirt, and you don't need to look down to place the pain.

     But you do, anyway. 

     The hole in your chest is larger than it ever was in reality. More than the work of a single blade. As you fall to your knees, you grasp desperately at Terezi's shirt, as if she can reverse the process.

     She tilts her head up, towards the sky. She doesn't see you.

*

     You wake up bit by bit, thoughts consumed by the sheer amount of effort opening your eyes is going to require. The fact that you've dreamt anything at all takes a while to register, and when it does, you're glad to find yourself in an empty bed. Good fucking riddance to Terezi Pyrope, because right now, you can't believe that you were ever stupid enough to get involved with her.

     Who in their right mind enters into a relationship with the person who stuck a sword through their chest, blade sliding out between their ribs? Vriska goddamn Serket, that's who. You've had dreams like this before. If a week goes by without one, you become unnerved by the thought of what's to come, and they range between leaving you mildly unsettled all day, to having you on your knees, hurling your guts out into the toilet.

     You throw off the cover, dressing quickly. Boxers, jeans, shirt, doesn't matter whether they're clean or not. You can hear Terezi out on the balcony, either talking to herself or on the phone, and you refrain from marching out there to break up with her, because you're not _so_ numbed by your dream that you don't realise how incredibly shitty that would be.

     Wait until you're back in England, and then you can give her her things back, the clothes she's left over at your place and the CDs she thought you'd like, killing two birds with one stone. Get it all over and done with at once, and don't ruin this admittedly disastrous trip beyond repair.

     If you went through with it now, you couldn't sleep in here. You'd have to room with Kanaya, and then maybe you'd fuck her, because you feel god-awful about realising how much of a moron you've been all along; and maybe she'd fuck you, because she feels shitty over everything that has (or hasn't, even) happened with Rose.

     Maybe. 

     It's something to consider.

     You've got one shoe on when Terezi bounces back into the room. Actual bouncing. Knees bending, feet springing off the floor.

     “Guess what!” she says. You don't answer, because you can tell from her tone that she's about to burst. “I got a job interview!”

     “Where?” you grunt, tugging your shoe laces tight. The last thing you need to add to your list of things pissing you off is tripping over halfway down the street.

     “Just outside of the city centre,” she says, blabbing something about the office, about how they're in the process of completely renovating the building, while still keeping its original look. There's a pause, and she adds, “In Oxford, that is.”

     “Great. I think you should take it.”

     On your feet, you wrap your hand around the door handle, and Terezi says your name; voice taut, almost like a whine. She's confused by your bluntness, because you know how hard she's been trying to land herself a job she'll manage to fall into frustrating, draining love with, and yet there you are, shrugging her off.

     “It's only an interview. I don't have it yet,” she explains, but you're not listening. She's as good as gone, permanently residing all the way up in Oxford, far from you and your shitty one bedroom flat, life going absolutely nowhere.

     “Whatever,” is all you manage to come up with, though you make sure to slam the door behind you. 

*

     New York's as hot as it was in your dream. If any good has come from that, other than your decision to summarily end things with Terezi – provided she doesn't beat you to the punch, and why wouldn't she? – it's the fact that you now have all this excess anger and nothing to do but channel it into productivity. 

     If Rose Lalonde thinks she can fuck around with your moirail, if she thinks she can just turn her back on Kanaya without a word of an explanation, then she's got another thing coming. Finding out where she lives turns out to be remarkably easy; a few enquiries at an internet café later, and you're in the back of a taxi, draining up two thirds of the cash that happened to be in your back pocket when you left the hotel.

     Looks like you're walking back. You stare out of the window as the taxi slogs through traffic, and then breaks away from the busier parts of the city, but you don't take much of your surroundings in. You're busy focusing on thinking about nothing, and every twist and turn, every block and avenue, looks the same to you. When the taxi driver seems to be waiting for a tip, your English suddenly becomes worse, and you turn your back on the vehicle. 

     Rose's house is huge. Even compared to the hotel you've been staying in, and the high-rise buildings all around you, it's a palace, even from a distance. There's a wall surrounding it, far too tall for you to scale, and you head around the perimeter, until you find the iron gate, bars thicker than your wrist. Though she's certainly not spared any expense when it comes to security, the gate has been left ajar, and you don't think it's an accident, either. Everything is in working order, the keypad to punch in a code or buzz through to announce your presence is all lit up, and the surveillance camera twists on its stand, whirring as the lens focuses in on you.

     You stare up at it, seeing your own reflection warped in a fish eye. Not glancing back, you slip in through the gate; there's just enough room for you to get in without causing it to sway on its hinges. 

     As if expecting an ambush, because this has all been too easy thus far, you walk with your shoulders hunched, glancing all around you. The driveway towards the house goes on for what feels like miles, but takes less than half a minute to walk, and you feel exposed for being the only one out there. The grass is overgrown, though not enough to make the house seem neglected, or even untidy. Getting it dealt with has probably just slipped Rose's mind.

     In the taxi, you were prepared to pound your fists against the door, but Rose is sat out on the front step, as if waiting for you. She couldn't have known you were going to come, because she doesn't know who you are, doesn't know that you've travelled all this way because of her. You picture her like this every morning, waiting and waiting, wearing yesterday's creased clothing. 

     You doubt she's slept.

     She looks up at you, cigarette between two fingers, a glass held loosely in the other hand, and doesn't seem at all concerned by the stranger on her property. Rose's eyes are dark, as if she's devoted too much time to thinking, and shadows cut across her face at deep, unflattering angles.

     If she broke the eye contact with a blink and turned from you now, you know that you'd spend weeks stuck on the image of her staring at you without seeing, as if some part of your mind had paused at that frame. No wonder Kanaya's so shaken up.

     “Which one are you?” Rose asks. Her voice is thick but smooth, and although her words come out evenly, as she intended them to, you can tell she's drunk.

     “Vriska. Vriska Serket,” you offer up, as if your surname will clarify anything to her. She knows something, there's no doubting that, but you can't begin to fathom what it is, exactly. Kanaya remembered through her dreams, and you and Terezi remembered through encountering one another; Rose might be susceptible to the former, but she hasn't had time to fully unravel enough. It doesn't explain the occasional flash of clarity in her eyes. Though she now stares at you blankly. “Uh, blue text. Eights instead of Bs.”

     “Oh.”

     Rose flicks the ash off the end of her cigarette. You watch it flutter to the ground, because she's still staring right through you.

     “Would you like a drink?” she asks.

     “Nah. It's a bit early for me,” you say, automatically, and then hear the conversation reversed in your head. You remember all the times you've been drinking too early for the company you're mixing with, recall the fact that, for all intents and purposes, you've broken up with your girlfriend, and say, “Fuck it.”

     You sit down next to Rose, and she reaches behind her for the bottle. It's vodka, expensive looking, and she has another glass, too. Maybe she really does wait out here day after day, drink in hand and an unused tumbler by her side, waiting for company. 

     “When I was thirteen, my mother died,” Rose says as she hands you a glass of vodka, two thirds full. She only spilt a few drops while pouring it, and she doesn't pause long enough for you to conjure up any sympathetic noises. “Hepatic cancer, they told me, and all who knew her quietly and respectfully agreed that it was a fitting end. I'd been with her for nights on end in the hospital, I was told. I expect that I curled up under the covers with her and listened to the sound of her staggered breathing, exaggerated by the machines she was hooked up to. I expect that these noises haunt me to this very day.”

     Rose stubs out the cigarette on the step she's sat on, though it's less than half done. Her hands seem fidgety, after this, so you glance around, and spot a cigarette carton behind her. You pull out a smoke and hand it over to her; she doesn't realise it belonged to her to begin with, and thanks you. She bows her head forward as you light it with the lighter from your back pocket, inhaling deeply before continuing.

     “But from what I remember, she was murdered. She was murdered suddenly and brutally, as all of the most shocking deaths are delivered, killed as a hero, before she could even reach her full potential. When I was thirteen, fourteen, people would uncomfortably accept this version of the tale from me, assuming it was my way of dealing with things. I'd wanted to believe she'd died to protect me, apparently; I was too young to accept that she'd drunk herself to death without a care in the world as to what or who she was leaving behind.”

     You knock back a third of the vodka as she talks, restless, though you know she doesn't expect you to do anything more than listen. You don't have to speak up, because she may as well not even be talking to you. Her tone is flat, almost unaffected, as if she's recounted the tale a hundred times over. To psychologists, mostly, though you wouldn't be surprised if she spoke to her cats in this way, too.

     You can see one of them creeping closer, peering out from behind a bush.

     “A few years later, however, they decided I was deluded. They had me taken away, on several occasions, and I showed exemplary behaviour. Yes, Doctor; my mother was a sottish, callous wench, who cared more to uncover the bottom of bottles than ensure that I'd been tucked into bed each night. May I leave now? Well, when I turned eighteen and inherited my mother's estate, and the fortune that entailed, I did the natural thing.

     “If I was to live with my delusions, then I would do what all tortured souls did: express my insanity through an acceptable medium. I choose literature. I could paint the pages with the flashes I saw behind my eyes when I was bone-dry, and embroider my words with references to Greek tragedies, and all the inherent Freudian subtext that would naturally be conveyed. In the eighth chapter, I wrote in a character that dresses all in blue; a liar, a cheat, a thief.”

     You twist the glass between your hands. Not a single drop falls out, even when it's upside down. So this is the legacy you leave across multiple universes, is it? But this isn't about you. This is about Rose Lalonde, steadily rocking more and more on the spot.

     “Did you see things in your dreams? Is that how you figured it out?”

     “No,” she says firmly, as if you haven't been paying attention. Which could be true; your mind is in a muddled place, right now. “Only ever while I was awake. If not for my dearly departed mother, I would've thought I was seeing glimpses of the future.”

     It makes sense, in so much as these things can. She's your fellow Hero of Light; and when the truth came back to you, you'd thought you were going to be blinded by it, at the time. A small mercy that you weren't a Seer, as well.

     Only a Thief.

     “I agreed with them. The doctors, the psychiatrists, every shrink they ever sent me to. I thought that they were right, that we could all come to a mutual understanding about the sorry state of my psyche.” Rose leans forward, face buried in her hands. It occurs to you she's drunker than you initially thought. If the vodka bottle next to her is this morning's work, then her stomach is probably trying to work its way up and out of her throat. “And then I find Kanaya sat there before me, in the middle of a restaurant in central New York. Which means that— this is all real, isn't it?”

     “Yeah,” you mumble, slumping forward. And then, like it's an afterthought, because she certainly wasn't besmirching Kanaya's honour by deserting her, you say, “You shouldn't have walked out on Kanaya like that.”

     Rose turns to you, shoulders shaking once with a silent laugh, and says, “Do you know what it's like to have sculpted yourself into a complete and utter fuck-up?”

     Looking away from her, you let out a laugh of your own, and say, “Yeah.”

     You tilt your glass towards her. One more for the road.

*

     Rose heads back into the house at around lunch time, though you doubt midday means much to her. There are empty bottles along the breakfast bar in her kitchen, and she knocks one of them over in the process of calling a cab for you. There's no need for you to worry about paying, because she assures you she can afford it; and don't be put off by the mess of her house, and the fact that the lights are all off, even with the curtains drawn. It's a big place, too big for one person, and she'll call for a cleaner, sooner or later. 

     You don't pressure her, because any more pressure and she'll end up needing her stomach pumped, but as you leave, you mention that she could give Kanaya a call. Kanaya's not going to care about what she's made of herself, because look at you! You give her a quick account of what happened to you, and though you don't mention Terezi, there are gaping holes in your story that say more than any roundabout explanation of her role in things could.

     On the way back to the hotel, you decide that you don't want to break up with Terezi. It could be the alcohol numbing you to what you were feeling this morning, but the urge to make yourself feel worse by being spiteful to her has more or less flushed itself out of your system. You might not want to break up with her, but you've got to face facts; she _is_ going to take this interview, and there's no way she's going to be turned down. She's moving away for good, she's going to be busy with work, she's going to meet plenty of people on the same level as her, intellectually. 

     Not wanting to break up with her doesn't guarantee that it isn't going to happen.

     You consider apologising. You try planning out what you'll say in the back of your head, but everything comes out sounding too sickly sweet, too honest; even in your own head it doesn't feel like the sort of sentiment that would ever pass your lips. 

     All you can think of on the way back is Rose and her empty house full of empty bottles. If Terezi hadn't come back after you'd done everything you could to chase her away, perhaps you would've ended up like that, too.

     You take the stairs up to your floor, not the lift, affording yourself a few extra minutes to build up your courage. All to no avail: Terezi isn't there when you get back, and Kanaya isn't in her room, either. Sitting on the edge of your and Terezi's bed, you run your tongue behind your teeth, tasting the last traces of vodka, and imagine that the two of them have packed up and left without you.

     Even though all of Terezi's clothes are still strewn around the room, tangled up with your own belongings. 

     Two hours later, Terezi arrives with shopping bags hooked over each arm. Kanaya probably took her shopping for something suitable for her interview. You haven't moved in that time, other than to pee, and your thoughts have turned from apologies to how unbelievably hungry you are. Terezi closes the door behind her, and says, “Vriska?” just to double-check. Though you've no doubt that she knows exactly where you are in the room.

     You slump forward, as if you can make yourself smaller and shrink away from her, but she heads over to the bed, bags falling to the floor, hands finding your shoulders.

     You wonder why she's always so fucking willing to forgive you. Maybe it's because she doesn't know what you've been thinking about her.

     Maybe she still feels guilty about sticking a sword through your back. 

     You grip her hips, head tilting forward. Your forehead bumps against her stomach, and her fingers run through your hair. You can't stand how overwhelmingly fond of you she is, and so you wrap your arms tightly around her, face smushing into her stomach as you shake your head over and over.

     You don't want to fuck Kanaya. You don't want to fuck anyone else. You don't want to fuck Terezi, particularly; you just want to cling to her as she laughs under her breath in that frustrating way of hers.

     “Fuck that job,” you say, and headbutt her ribs, along the bottom. “... you could do better than that!”

     Not that you know anything about the law, beyond the ones you've broken, and she stops laughing, even though this is the exact sort of thing she should be finding funny. 

     You pause, huffing, and nuzzle up her shirt. You kiss her stomach and say, “I bet you could earn waaaaaaaay more money in London, anyway!”

     You already fucked up this morning. Might as well go all the way now and grumble out your feelings all over her.

     “Okay,” she says. Just okay.

     Leaning back, you look up at her, and say, “That's it? You're just going to change all your plans and only focus on London, all because I told you to.”

     “Why not? It's hardly as if that will hold me back! Anyone who didn't want to hire me would be legally insane.”

     “Huh.” Can't disagree with her there. “So you'll get a flat in London. Once you have a job.”

     “Yep.”

     This is way too easy. There has to be a catch.

     “And you're not going to come over to my place every fucking day, are you?”

     She says she'll do anything you ask her, but she already does far too much already. You wonder what she gets out of this, all her giving and giving, while you push and push, inwardly resentful of all these things she's yet to do. Terezi won't let you get away with this forever, you know that, but you don't think you could stand to act this way for much longer. 

*

     Back at the airport, queueing to check in your luggage, it's as if you've never been to New York to begin with. Even though, technically, you're still there. Your thoughts are already focused back on work, on having to ferry Terezi between London and Oxford for the next however long, and the time spent outside of the hotel is all a blur. Kanaya's mood has remained consistently and quietly melancholic, and though you and Terezi have both tried, you haven't been able to do much to help. Not for longer than a few hours, anyway. 

     Terezi's latched onto your arm while you wait, scuffing her feet against the floor out of boredom, and you don't mind it too much. You glance at Kanaya over the top of her head, forcing a smile whenever she catches you looking, and just as the end of the line is in sight, her phone rings. She pulls it from her hand-luggage, checks the display, brow furrowing. An unknown number, you assume.

     You have a few minutes until you're going to be called over, and Kanaya excuses herself, stepping away from the restless crowd, so that she has some chance to hearing who's on the other line. 

     Kanaya's not gone for long. You try to keep your gaze trained on her, to see what her expression gives away, but the airport's a busy place, and people cut between you and her as they march to their check-in desks, suitcases trailing behind them. Goddamn rude of them, because surely they must realise that you're doing your best to pry here.

     When Kanaya returns, her mouth keeps twitching at the corners, though she never intends to form a smile. Not because she needs to suppress something, but because she probably genuinely doesn't know how to feel. Good on Rose Lalonde if she did come through in the end, you think; you've spent days disheartened on Kanaya's behalf, making yourself feel shittier than you need to out of sympathy. Having a moirail is far more draining than you expected it to be.

     “Who was that?” you ask.

     “Oh, it was...” Kanaya says, shaking her head as she slips her phone back into her bag. “It was business.”

     Terezi scrunches up her nose, leans towards Kanaya, and says, right up in her face, “Liar!”

     Kanaya doesn't rebuke the accusation, but once you've checked in your bags and she's fretted over the fact that they're somehow lighter, in spite of all you've bought, she turns to you, and says, “She apologised for missing the meeting. That's all.”

     You place a hand on her back, squarely between her shoulder blades. 

     She tenses beneath your touch, and you don't patronise her by saying that everyone has to start somewhere.


End file.
